


We All Fall Down

by Pink_Dalek



Category: Endeavour
Genre: Gen, Prompt Fill, Sickfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-29 21:38:58
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,381
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10862607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pink_Dalek/pseuds/Pink_Dalek
Summary: Based on a prompt on the dreamwidth prompt site: https://morseverse.dreamwidth.org/1519.html?thread=495#cmt495 There's been a nasty cold going around the station. Morse and Thursday have both escaped... until now.





	We All Fall Down

Note: After a much-too-long hiatus, I'm writing Endeavour fic again. My muses were buried under an avalanche of Real Life, wandered off to another fandom, were kidnapped, bound, and gagged by my knitting/sewing muses, mistook Maine Coon-generated dust bunnies for plot bunnies-- it took Season 3 airing in the US last summer to get them back on track. Then they crawled into a hole in despair in November, but Season 4 (found it online and bingeing before TPTB find it and take it down) and schadenfreude lured them out again.

 

"The only thing missing is a red X painted on the front doors," Morse observed as he and DI Thursday walked through Cowley police station. Only a handful of officers were working in the reception area. Coughing echoed through the corridors as they made their way to the CID office.

Peter Jakes was at his desk, handkerchief over his mouth as he coughed. His normally neat hair fell across his forehead and his eyes watered from the force of the coughing fit. Jim Strange was watching him cautiously. "You sure you don't want a lift home?" he asked when the fit subsided.

Jakes shook his head. "We're shorthanded as it is," he croaked. "I can manage."

Strange shook his head, but knew better than to argue with the prickly detective. He noticed Morse and Thursday. "Any luck with the witness?"

Morse shook his head. "She hadn't seen anything useful after all."

"MacNutt stayed home sick, sir."

"Good," Fred said emphatically. "He sounded terrible yesterday."

It had started a week before. There was a bad cold going through Oxford, probably started among the uni students. A few of the Cowley PCs brought it to the station, and it was spreading through the ranks like wildfire in dry grass.

It was the kind of cold that looked like borderline flu: fever, aches, exhaustion, and a bad cough. It also seemed to have an affinity for chests: several people at the station had already ended up with bronchitis. People who could were soldiering on, covering for those who couldn't.

*****

"Perhaps we should provide masks," Bright mused during his meeting with Fred the next morning.

"Might cause a panic-- remind people too much of the Spanish flu from the first war, if they see coppers going round in masks." Fred was too young to remember it, but he'd heard the stories from his parents.

"I suppose you're right." Bright was old enough to remember the Great Influenza. He sipped his tea and grimaced. "It's some awful herbal concoction Mrs. Bright insists I drink-- it's supposed to ward off colds and influenza."

"My Win's stocked up on vitamin pills and is poking them down the whole family morning and night."

"We're on the verge of putting men on the moon, yet a cure for the common cold eludes us." Bright sighed and choked down more tea. "Horrible stuff," he murmured.

*****

"Sergeant Jakes-- go home!"

Jakes lifted his head from his desk, looking blearily at Thursday. "I can keep working, sir. You're already down a man. I just need a few minutes." His suit was rumpled and his tie askew. There were dark shadows under his eyes.

"You need more than a few minutes. Morse, drive him."

Jakes complained in the car, until a coughing fit overcame him.

Morse looked at him with concern. Their early animosity was thawing into tentative comradeship, but even if it hadn't, Jakes was worrying him. "Do we need to stop anywhere? Chemist? Shops?"

"No, I'm set," Jakes rasped. "Stocked up on canned soup and cold pills when it first came on the other day." He leaned his head against the cool glass and sighed. "Don't catch this if you can help it. It's shite, Morse."

When Morse returned to the station, Strange had already divvied up Jakes' paperwork between them. Some of it was MacNutt's. His wife had called Fred that morning to report that he was down with bronchitis and wouldn't be in until next week at the earliest.

Morse sighed and rolled a form into his typewriter.

"Getting downright spooky around here," Strange admitted. Morse rather liked how quiet it was. He spent the afternoon tapping away on his typewriter and filing, making a decent dent in his in-box for once.

The following morning found Strange putting lemon and honey in his tea, instead of his usual milk and two sugars. "Woke up with a tickle in my throat."

Morse stared at him, spoon stilling in his own teacup. "You can't get sick. Bright's already made noises about bringing in detectives from County to fill in. The only thing stopping him is, they're being hit by this bug as hard as we are."

"I hardly ever get that sick. No more than a bit of the sniffles, even when I was a kid."

By that afternoon, Strange was snuffling into his handkerchief, still swearing it was nothing. The next morning he dragged himself into the office, his usual ruddiness replaced by pallor. "Keep your distance, matey," he told Morse. "You're the last man standing."

"The only bright spot is, it seems to be hitting the criminal class just as hard. Things are keeping quiet." During the day, Morse kept Strange supplied with tea with lemon and honey. "Do you want any biscuits? We've got gingersnaps."

"No thanks. Haven't got any appetite."

Morse tried not to stare. Strange never lost his appetite. Neither stress, nor illness, nor romantic disappointments put him off his food.

A bellowing sneeze from down the hall made Morse nearly jump out of his skin. "Hard to believe such a small man could work up such loud sneezes," Strange said. Bright had been sneezing all day, and his office was situated such that it echoed down the corridor into the CID office.

"The Cowley Plague strikes again," Morse observed drily. "Ring around the roses/A pocket full of posies/Achoo! Achoo! We all fall down."

The following day Strange was rasping and miserable, his voice nearly gone, but still doggedly working. Morse had stopped startling every time Bright sneezed, and the chief had added coughing to his repertoire. Whenever Bright appeared, he looked progressively more exhausted. Thursday was trying to convince him to go home.

The next day Strange dragged himself in. Thursday was acting chief because Bright's fever had spiked during the night and he couldn't get out of bed.

Jakes straggled in at noon, still coughing but able to work a bit. Thursday seized the chance to send Strange home for the afternoon, despite his protests. Morse ended up assisting Thursday, so when a call came in about a housebreaking, Jakes was the one who went out to take the report.

He returned a mixture of annoyed and embarrassed. "Complainant took one look at me and wouldn't let me in the house. Said I looked contagious. I had to take her statement through the front window."

"We'll just have to hope the forensics team look healthier to her," Fred answered drily.

*****

Morse awakened with a sore throat and a deep desire to pull the blankets over his head and go back to sleep. Heaving a sigh he forced himself from bed, hoping that splashing some water on his face when he shaved would help.

Once groomed and dressed, he rummaged around in his tiny kitchen. Breakfast was usually cereal or toast with jam, but today nothing appealed. He finally forced down a piece of plain toast.

"You look peaky," Joan observed when she opened the Thursdays' front door.

"Just overtired. We've been shortstaffed at the station."

"That's what Dad said. Come inside and I'll fix you a cuppa."

He tried to object but Joan insisted, and he found himself with a cup of tea-- with lemon and honey. It was unexpectedly soothing to both his throat and the slight headache he was developing.

"You all right, Morse?" Fred asked at first sight of him. 

Win, following her husband down the stairs, slipped past. "I'll get you a vitamin pill, dear."

Fortified with tea and a vitamin pill, Morse drove Fred to the station. They arrived at the CID office to find Strange at his desk, but no Jakes. "He's coming in at noon. I'll go home then. That way you've got two sergeants on duty," he rasped when Fred asked. "Matey, you don't look well," he told Morse after Fred had gone into his office.

"Just a bit of a sore throat and tiredness is all."

"That's how it starts."

"Don't remind me. I just need to get through this week. By then maybe MacNutt will be back, and you and Jakes will be on the mend."

Morse felt worse as the day wore on. His head was pounding despite dosing himself with aspirin, and he desperately wanted to go back to bed. His sore throat was worse and his head was starting to get stuffy. He drank cup after cup of tea with lemon and honey and gargled with warm salt water in the men's room every hour. Still, he was healthier than Strange and Jakes, so he soldiered on.

He decided against lunch. His appetite had disappeared, and all he really wanted was to sleep. He shifted papers and files to one side of his desk and moved the typewriter, put his head down, and dozed away the hour, but woke gummy-eyed and even more achy.

"You look like death warmed over," Jakes rasped at him.

"So do you."

"Feel like it, too. You?"

Morse just shook his head as he trudged out to the tea trolley, returning with two cups of tea with lemon and honey.

"There's hardly anyone left on our floor," he reported. "I thought it sounded so quiet because my ears are blocked."

That night the congestion invaded his chest. Morse woke feeling half-suffocated and coughing, his chest aching, and spent twenty minutes trying to steam his chest open before he could even begin to get ready for work.

"Go home, Morse," was how Strange greeted him. "I'm starting to mend, and you look ready to keel over."

"I can't let you work alone." Just talking triggered a coughing fit.

"Jakes is doing better, too. He's coming in at ten. Go home, matey."

Morse didn't have any energy left to argue. He dragged himself to Thursday's office, finding Bright there with him looking more like his name. He promptly announced himself with a cough that sounded-- and felt-- like it came from the bottom of his lungs.

"Good God, Morse! Go home!"

"The superintendent's right. Why didn't you call in?"

"Couldn't leave you shorthanded, sir."

"I'll have a PC drive you. We don't need you collapsing on the bus, Morse."

"But-- "

"But nothing. Strange is on the mend, Jakes is in better shape than you, and I'm not pulling double duty any longer."

"He's right, constable." Bright's voice was gentle despite its hoarseness. "You've done admirable work. It's your turn to rest."

Morse didn't have the energy to argue, and the siren song of his bed was getting stronger. "May I wait in the break room?"

"Of course."

Thursday and Bright were just finishing their discussion when a young constable who barely looked older than Sam poked his head in. "Sorry to bother you, sirs, but DC Morse has fallen asleep in the break room. Do you want me to wake him?"

"Lord no, let the lad sleep." After Bright left, Thursday went to the floor break room himself. It was the lull between the start of the day and elevensies, and Morse was dead to the world on the lumpy old sofa, snoring through congestion. Fred sighed and fetched his overcoat, draping it over Morse. The young constable stirred when Fred checked on him at noon, looking around hazily, eyes rheumy, face flushed with fever. Then another coughing spell hit.

"I'm taking you home. We'll stop by Richardson's on the way and I'll pick you up a few things to tide you over."

"I-- " Morse's voice came out as a breathy squeak and he cleared his throat. "I feel much better for sleeping. I can keep going after some tea."

"Lad, your voice is nearly gone." He placed a hand on Morse's forehead. "And you're running a fever. It's home and to bed with you. I'd take you to ours if we had a spare room, just to make sure you rest and eat a bit. My Win'd have you fixed up in a trice."

"It's not nec-- " Morse's protest was cut off by coughing.

*****

The next morning Fred woke with a headache and sore throat. He groaned.

"What's wrong, love?" Win asked.

"Batten down the hatches. I think I've got the Cowley Plague."

"I'll fetch the vitamins and some tea with lemon and honey, dear." 

"I was going to check on Morse, make sure he was looking after himself."

"I'll send Joan over to check on him. At least the two of you made it to Saturday."

*****

There was a knock at his door a little before noon. Morse rolled over and groaned, hauling himself out of bed. If it's a political canvasser or somebody selling something, I'm going to cough in his face. "All right, all right, I'm coming!" he croaked at a second, harder knock. He opened the door a crack to find Joan Thursday, looking bright-eyed and cheerful, standing on his doorstep with a tote bag. "Morning, Morse. Dad sent me over to make certain you hadn't died in the night." Ugh, she was cheerful. And pretty. While he was wearing faded pyjamas with a vest that desperately needed a wash. "I think I am dead. The grim reaper just hasn't collected me yet."  
Joan held up the bag. "Mum sent chicken soup. Dad's down with this bug too, so she's made gallons of it. And lime jelly. Going to let me in?"

Morse opened the door and stood aside. "Enter at your own risk. My flat's a nest of germs by now."

"If I'm going to catch it, I'm already exposed from Dad." Joan went straight to the tiny kitchen, cluttered with the remains of his breakfast of toast and tea as well as the previous night's cheese toastie.

"The flat's a tip. I'm sorry."

Joan waved off his awkward attempt to tidy up. "Back to bed with you. I'll take care of this while the soup warms."

"There are coins on the meter." Morse didn't have the energy to argue; being out of bed for any length of time drained him.

Sure enough, there were neat stacks of pence, sixpence, and a shilling or two atop the gas and electric meters. "You should keep these in an old jar. It's what we do at home."

The rustling from his bed stopped for a moment. "I suppose. This way, I can see what I've got."

"Here-- that bed's a mess." Joan hustled him into a chair while she deftly retucked bedding and fluffed pillows. "That's better." She settled Morse into bed, so much like her mother that he hid a smile-- she'd probably take his head off if he said it. Then it was back to the kitchen to warm a bowl of soup, putting the rest in the fridge with the lime jelly. While the soup warmed she did the bit of washing-up and wiped down the small countertop. Then she went around the main room in a circle, tidying up. "Do you want any of these books while you're in bed?"

"The Betjeman and the Tudor biography, I suppose."

"Is this what you consider light reading?" Joan asked teasingly as she brought over the books. "Makes me feel a right idiot for reading Valley of the Dolls. I know it's trashy, but it's-- you know how sometimes you just want a knickerbocker glory? Even though you know you should be eating an apple?"

Morse raised his hands slightly. "You don't have to convince me. Besides, reading about Henry VIII and his wives feels like a trashy novel."

When the soup was ready, Joan rummaged in his kitchen. "Have you got a tray?"

"I haven't needed one. I don't usually serve myself breakfast in bed."

"Smart arse." Joan brought him a bowl of soup and refilled his water glass.

"Your mum's an amazing cook," Morse said after the first spoonful. "Thank her for me?"

"Of course." Joan looked around the flat as he ate. "Do you want your phonograph closer to the bed?"

"No, thanks. I've been sleeping mostly." Morse was hungrier than he'd thought, at least for something he hadn't cooked himself.

"Would you like more?"

"No, thank you."

"Lime jelly?"

"Maybe a little."

After he'd finished, Joan did the washing up, double-checked that he was set for medicine and food, and made sure he had the Thursdays' phone number.

"In my address book, sitting by the phone."

"Ring us if you need anything."

"I will."

"Mum will kill you if you don't. Get some sleep."

When Joan returned home, both of her parents wanted a full status report on Morse, which she gave. "Oh, and Mum? Can I take him one of our odd trays? He hasn't got one, and we've got the new set that actually matches."

"Of course."

*****

The second knock came at late afternoon. It was Max DeBryn. "I heard over the Cowley bush telegraph that you were ill. I thought I'd look in on you, since I doubt you've seen a doctor." 

"It's just the bug that's making the rounds."

"Even so. We're getting some pneumonia cases in hospital from it." He made Morse sit on the bed and looked at his throat, then popped a thermometer under his tongue and felt his neck for swollen lymph nodes before reading the thermometer. "Temperature's at 102." He listened to Morse's chest. "Lungs sound clear, but the bronchial tubes are congested."

"I could have told you that."

"How are you sleeping? Is the coughing keeping you awake?"

"Somewhat, but I'm sleeping so much during the day it makes up for it."

*****

Joan was back the next day with stew and dumplings. "You look healthier. Or at least, less peaky."

"I feel rather better. Dr. DeBryn stopped by after you left."

"Isn't he a pathologist? You didn't look that bad yesterday." Joan swept past him into the kitchenette. "I see you finished off the soup," she said as she looked into his fridge. "Morse, how old is this jar of pickle?"

"Don't know, really."

It went into the bin. "You'll get botulism. Buy a new jar."

"Yes, ma'am." At least he'd dredged up the energy for a bath last night and was wearing fresh pyjamas, although both those and his dressing gown were faded and badly in need of replacing. No one else saw them, so he hadn't bothered.

"I brought you a tray. It's an extra, so you can keep it. In case you ever want to serve anyone breakfast in bed," she added with an arch look.

*****

The following day, it was Win Thursday who stopped by. "You seem much better today, dear," she told him, checking his forehead with the back of her hand. "Fever's gone?"

"It seems to be." Morse had woken with more energy than he'd expected, and had shaved and dressed. He'd spent the morning reading and listening to Mozart.

"Fred's doing much better, too. Still has the bad cough, though."

Morse nodded. "I have spells so bad my chest hurts, but it's clearing out."

Mrs. Thursday had brought him some thick soup, and checked to see if he needed anything from the shops before she left. "Keep resting, and I'll look in on you tomorrow, dear."

After a few more days off, Morse and Thursday were well enough to return to work. The station was lively and busy, the full complement of staff hard at work. Morse settled in at his desk, stifling a groan at the state of his in-box.

Thursday went to Bright's office for their morning meeting to review station business and the current caseload. "And you probably don't want to hear this," Bright said as they finished, "but a couple of PCs went home sick yesterday afternoon. Stomach bug. Apparently it's started going around."

"You're right, sir," Fred answered wryly. "I don't want to hear it."


End file.
